-- Sunday, February 6, 2000 --

4:01 p.m. I'm trying I'm trying I'm trying to write in the daytime again. Whatever happened to that early morning, first-thing set of rules I iron-clad myself with just a few short months ago?

Was I lying to myself and to you when I clambered up on that particular soapy? Am I treating this writing exercise more lightly than I should? Was I -- ahem -- wrong?

Well no, no, and of course not.

Here's the thing: in the old days, these moldy days before I stuck my neck out and basically began to twist and shout ... in those sad old days I had to drag myself to the keyboard and force myself to write. The only audience I had was the Phalanx of Pain: my internal termagant, my agent, my editor.

They want perfection. They want to be wowed! That have no patience, no charity, no foresight. The first words had better grab them by the family jools, or by God, that manuscript is going to hit the far wall with a noisy thud.

First words, I tell you! Move me shake me, make me loads of moolah babee.

Some days I could do it; most days I dragged myself to the spinning stool with nothing but dread. But not anymore! No sir.

I am a person possessed. A person changed. A person on a mission.

I delete far less than I upload and I delay hardly at all. And as you can see from the beginning of this piece, I don't worry about the perfect opening sentence anymore. I actually believe you will read past the throat clearing and the remaining remorseful remnants of reluctance that still crop up at the start of a writing session.

And what, you might ask ... just what has changed? Well I'll tell you -- because it *is* you. You and you and you.

It is a miracle. You are out there and you read. Some of you get every single allusion. Some of you laugh at the lame jokes. Some of you know when I'm obfuscating on thin ice and some of you know when I'm deadly serious and taking real risks. It is the most amazing thing that's ever happened to me.

I used to be afraid most of the time. Afraid of that Mack truck with my name on it barreling across those big yellow perforated lines. Afraid I'd be snuffed out before I had a chance to speak. Afraid to face my maker with my crayons still sharp.

Such a gift we've been given! A blank page of a day on which to scribble and doodle and maybe even leave a worthwhile mark or two. Sometimes it feels like practice and sometimes it feels like performance, but at least the hand is moving and the crayons are fast becoming oily nubbins.

So, as I come to my desk with increasing enthusiasm each and every day, I really have to thank you for being on the other side of the glass. Tap tap tap-tap tap. (That's Morse Code for thanks a whole heaping bunch.)

1:38 a.m. Yes, the whole evening has passed and I thought I might add some kind of clever coda or fabulous closing quip. The hours are faster than my thoughts, so I'll just ...

Tap. Tap. Tap. (That's Morse Code for goodnight.)